Together We'll Ring in the New Year
by streco
Summary: Close in on Maureen and Joanne's New Year's party. Pan on Mark Cohen, alone, missing the old days, when everyone else was alive. But now they're not, and they won't ever come back. postRENT. songfic. oneshot.


Together We'll Ring in the New Year

Mark had never felt so out of place at a party with his friends before, ever. He'd always felt comfortable around them, and even around strangers. He had great communication talents, he was always a partygoer. But here, he felt like the sore thumb of the party, he felt like he didn't belong.

First of all, everyone was wearing fancy attire. Even Maureen had dressed up; she was wearing a short black cocktail dress; the bottom fell at different lengths, and a single strap wrapped around her neck. She had in silver earrings and was wearing a silver cross around her neck—Joanne had converted her to Christian. Her heels had fancy straps that wrapped around her ankles.

Mark tried to think of the last time he'd seen her particularly dressed up, but he couldn't remember. This was a changed Maureen, a different girl than he'd grown up with and dated. She was now serious with Joanne, and they'd invited all of their friends—meaning all of Joanne's rich lawyer friends—to a big New Years party at their house.

_This must be it, welcome to the new year  
__The drinks were consumed, the plants were destroyed,  
__And the hors d'oeuvres dismantled_

Mark was wandering around aimlessly, his own slacks and dress shoes with his grey and yellow striped sweater not nearly fancy enough for the party. He missed the old New Years parties they'd had, Collins bringing the Stoli and the pot, Roger bringing the music, Maureen bringing the party, Joanne bringing the conversation, Mimi bringing the excitement, Mark bringing the camera, providing fuel for the memories.

But now they were all dead; Mimi had passed about a week after her miracle revival, just long enough for Roger to say goodbye to her. Collins passed shortly after that, a couple of months at the most. Roger stuck around much longer, he passed in October, right around Halloween. Gloom settled over the remaining three; the only times they saw each other was when Maureen would come over and force Mark out of the loft, or the two women would storm it when he wasn't expecting it.

They were keeping an eye on him, afraid he'd try to commit suicide when they weren't looking. That was really the last thing on Mark's mind; he wasn't going to succumb to the weakness that was April, he wanted to live a strong life for his friends who couldn't. He'd feel selfish if he took his own life, because he was one of the few out of the many people he'd known over his life who _had _a full time ahead of him.

_I'm not smiling beneath this fake veneer  
__I am often interrupted, or completely ignored,  
__But most of all, I'm bored_

Sighing, he took a glass of champagne from the refreshments table and sat down, feeling sorry for himself. Not one girl had looked at him in terms of relationships since he lost Maureen, and she'd been the only one he'd ever looked at. Why was Roger dead? He always helped with things like this.

He fiddled with his scarf for a second, not sure what to do. He downed the champagne quickly and put the glass down on the table, not quite caring what the hell happened to it later on in the night. Slowly, he rose to his feet and walked over to Maureen, whose conversations had been bubbly and bright, her over-made-up face—as far as he was concerned—lighting up with each peal of (fake) laughter she emitted.

Maybe he was being downtrodden about the whole situation, but he thought Maureen was beautiful _without _unnecessary concealer that made her look like something that came out of a fruit basket, faux eyelashes that strikingly resembled spiders, and eyeliner that drowned her beautiful brown eyes in seas of black. If anybody thought she looked _better _wearing the entire make up department of Wal-Mart, they deserved to be shot and filleted.

Ugh. He was being violent again.

_I'm trying to find out if my words have any meaning  
__Lackluster and full of contempt when it always ends the same_

"Maureen," he called, and she looked over, giving him widened eyes, code for 'Get me the hell out of here!' and he smiled. "Maureen, can you come here? I'm having a bit of a problem with the faucet..." and he dismissed himself from the room, hearing as Maureen excused herself as well and then more or less tripped into the kitchen, closing the door behind her.

"Jesus Christ," she breathed.

"Yes?"

"Shut up," she groaned, and unstrapped her heels from her feet, unwinding and untangling until she was finally free and moving her toes around in her knee highs. "This party sucks," she whined, and leant against the fridge. "Thank you for saving me," she breathed, and then turned, opening the freezer and taking out a gallon of ice cream.

"I'm bored as hell," he admitted. "Why the hell did you guys invite me here? It's just a bunch of rich assholes—"

"They're _Joanne's_ rich assholes," she reminded, pointing a spoon at him before placing it back in the ice cream gallon. "I've got to look like this and dress up and pile this shit on my face to look good to them, I guess. It means a lot to her, and I've fucked up a lot of shit when it comes to her friends and family, so I'm trying to do this right."

_Why won't she listen to me?_

"Maureen, this is changing who you are," Mark advanced on her, taking the ice cream gallon from her and placing it on the counter, much to her dismay. "And you should know that. I... I don't like seeing you fake like this. I think if they matter to Joanne, they should like you for who you _really _are, not the girl in the short cocktail dress laughing at shit that isn't even funny. You should be out there in your boots and crazy tanktops, cracking off bathroom jokes like it's your second nature." He waited. "Which it is," he added.

"Mark," she exhaled. "I'm sorry... I guess we're all changing... or, you're not, but Joanne and I are. We've moved on from our bohemian days, and now we're trying to pull apart and start a real life that will support things. I _know _Collins would be pissed that we're letting the fire die, I _know _Roger would be horrified that we're changing, and I _know _Angel wouldn't let it happen... but they're gone, and there are things we're going to have to do without them." Her speech was gentle, meaningful, and senseful... but not to Mark.

She bent down and started putting her shoes back on.

_Why did I come, oh, why did I come here?  
__These humans all suck,  
__I'd rather be home feeling violent and lonely_

Mark felt his heart shatter. It was an odd feeling; almost like the left side of his chest was exploding, fragments of feeling straying to different parts of his limbs and mind. "You... you _what? _Are you trying to _forget _about them? Maureen, what the _fuck _is wrong with you? Are you... oh, my God, you just can't be Maureen anymore. You... you aren't. And you're not making any sense..." he bent down against the counter and held his head together with his hands, trying to keep his mind from racing too far, too fast.

"Mark—" she was standing upright, her shoes now fastened on her feet.

"Don't talk to me!" he roared, and instantly, the party in the other rooms silenced. He was breathing heavily, Maureen was silent, and she quickly put the spoon in the sink, put the ice cream in the freezer, and left the room.

That left him, alone, in the kitchen, clutching his heart, trying to put together the pieces of what had just been torn apart. His and Maureen's friendship? His and Joanne's friendship? He wasn't sure, but he wasn't too fond of it.

_I'm not trying to sound so insincere,  
__But the postcard that's taped to the freezer reads  
_"_Wish you were here," how I wish I could disappear_

As he regained his composure, he stood up and kept his hands tightened around the edge of the counter, his knuckles paler than normal. "Stay calm," he urged himself. "Just... relax..." he slowly exited the room, closing the door behind him. He reentered the scene of the party, and though he'd momentarily stopped it, nobody recognized him for doing so.

The TV showed Times Square, the ball high at the top of a thin tower. It read _5:06_ in big red letters, the seconds ticking down as he inhaled and exhaled evenly. He wanted to go home. He really did. But, for some reason, he stayed—he wanted to make Maureen feel uncomfortable by his presence, he wanted to just lurk around. Shrugging, he approached the refreshments table again, only this time grabbing a Budweiser as opposed to champagne. He actually wanted to get completely wasted, but he figured he wouldn't, not in front of these stiff shirts.

He tripped over a pair of stray shoes that had materialized out of nowhere and ended up in front of a long, oak table against a sky blue wall. It was the only non-eggshell colored wall in the room, and it was only a _portion _of the wall; it was between two doors. Over the blue, white clouds were painted, and on the table stood many pictures. They were all of their friends—or, ex-friends, as they now probably called them, Mark thought.

One was of him and Roger, back in the Scarsdale days, one was Maureen and Collins, in their Hicksville days. One was of Roger and Mimi hugging, Mark sticking his tongue out in the background. There were several in which Collins and Angel were intertwined, either kissing, or hugging, or just holding hands. Mark cracked a smile, looking at the countless others.

_I'm not trying to sound so insincere,  
__But the postcard that's taped to the freezer reads  
_"_Wish you were here," how I wish I could disappear_

Trying to prevent tears from coming to his eyes, he walked away from the table, taking his beer with him, and he almost collided with Joanne as he turned. "Mark, I was looking for you," she smiled, inclining her head a bit and then eyeing the oak table. "How's the party treating you?" she asked politely.

_Shitty. Terrible. I wish I was anywhere but here_. Many thoughts of that nature grazed his mind, but he decided not to voice them, because Joanne was being fairly polite to him. "It's been alright," he tried to smile. "Just a little off for me... it's different not having everyone else, you know?" then he smiled a genuine sad smile, turning around and running his finger along the sides of one of the frames.

"I know what you mean," she replied. "Well... I'm sorry if you feel out of place... all these people are as annoying as hell. They keep insulting us on how our carpet has stains. I mean, come on—they clearly don't know how to party Collins-style," she laughed, and Mark joined her, and it felt good.

"Alright, well, you don't have to worry about me, go be impressive some more while I stand around and try to look normal," he cracked, and she chuckled a bit.

"Alright, but don't be a stranger—please, if you get _too _bored, just get one of us away from the losers and strike up a conversation. I don't want this to be awkward for you."

"Thanks, Jo," he waved a bit and she turned and walked away.

There was a moment of silence, and then he sighed, mumbling "sellout" under his breath before he took another sip of his beer. In the other part of the living room, there was yelling. "Three and a half minutes left!" Maureen called out, and Mark felt his throat tighten.

"_How long till next year?"_

"_Three and a half minutes."_

And then Mimi had claimed that she was giving up her vices, and going back—back to school. Not that she'd ever gotten a chance to do either of the sort. But he still had it on film, another one of those things they'd thought he'd missed.

Sighing, he decided he should join the rest of them in the living room for the big moment.

_Heads up, Damage Control, there's a ring around her finger  
__Last chance for changing lanes, and you missed it by a mile_

As he walked, he requested Roger's presence in his mind. _You there, Roger? Are you celebrating the new year up in heaven, or wherever the hell you may be? I hope you're happy, _he thought to him, and then decided he was probably schizophrenic. "Roger, if you're here, give me a sign," Mark murmured under his breath.

Nothing happened.

He walked past the kitchen, noticing that the door was now open. He figured he'd close it for Maureen, so he took two steps toward it, grabbed the handle, and went to step backward—but, then, on the kitchen counter, a lone box of Cap'n Crunch fell over and spilled out. Grinning, Mark looked up. "You son of a bitch," he prompted, "don't knock over her goddamn cereal. And, hell, how am I supposed to know that was you?"

He closed the door, and turned around—when he did, there was a girl wearing a plaid hair tie in her hair—when he did a double take, it was just a plain red.

Mark grinned again. "You win."

He stalked into the living room, his spirits high.

Now there was only one minute left, as someone cried, and Maureen and Joanne looked at each other excitedly before Joanne started talking. "Okay! So the other reason we called you all here, besides the fact that it's New Years and all—is that me and Maureen have an announcement to make."

Mark nearly stopped breathing. For some reason, he knew it. He knew by the way Maureen was looking at him with those _eyes_, and how Joanne was biting her lip and glancing at him sideways. He knew it.

_Why won't she listen to me?_

After this announcement was made, Mark knew, he was officially alone. Maureen and Joanne would no longer come knocking on his door—they'd never check in on him, they'd be too busy. This was the end of bohemian life as he knew it, and now he was flung into the real world, without family, without friends, without hope.

Ten seconds left.

"It's really, really big news for us—and we're all glad you're here to share it with us. So... here's the deal. Me and Maureen did a lot of talking, and we've finally decided that—"

Two seconds left.

"We're getting married!"

"Happy new year!"

_This must be it, welcome to the new year._

**A/N: **Thanks to Raj—Idina's eye color. XD

I love MCS, and this song applies to Roger AND Mark I feel, but Mark more. I thought the ending came out horrible, but the beginning I'm actually pretty proud of. Poor Mark :( Please, no flames.

–Steph.


End file.
